The apartment is a wreck—blood drying dark on the floor, glass glittering under the lights like teeth. The air is thick, suffocating, heavy with everything neither of you knows how to let go of.

“You don’t get it,” you snap, standing so fast the chair screeches behind you. “One day you’re not going to come back.”

Zack turns on you instantly, fury flashing sharp and bright in his mismatched eyes. “I did what I had to do,” he snarls. “I’m still standing, aren’t I?”

“You came home covered in someone else’s blood like it meant nothing,” you shoot back, closing the distance. “Like you mean nothing.”

That’s what does it.

The space between you collapses in a blink. Zack grabs you—hard, sudden—fingers locking around your wrist as he shoves you back against the wall. There’s no warning, no words, just raw motion and heat and anger crashing together. His body cages yours in, close enough that you can feel the tension rolling off him, sharp and volatile.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is brutal—unfiltered, all frustration and pent-up violence redirected into something he knows won’t break you. It’s messy, forceful, breath-stealing, like he’s trying to silence the argument by swallowing it whole. His grip tightens at your waist, not gentle, not careful—possessive, grounding, desperate.

His breath is uneven against your lips, chest rising fast where it’s pressed to yours. He doesn’t pull away right away. He stays there, forehead almost touching yours, jaw clenched, eyes dark and stormy.

He’s still furious. Still shaking with it.

But this—this is how he lets it out without hurting you.